Intangible Spirit

      June 18, 2014 marked 40 years since I received my diploma from my high school alma mater. Literally translated, alma mater means “nourishing/kind mother.” During my years at Philadelphia High School for Girls, I am not sure I would have necessarily agreed with that translation.

                In a happy coincidence, the June 21 issue of the Philadelphia Inquirer carried a heartwarming story of Imani Bullock.  Ms. Bullock is the fifth generation of women to graduate in white dress and red flowers:  as her mother, great-grandmother, and two great-aunts before her.  Ms. Bullock is a graduate of the current class, 258.  Because Girls’ High once graduated classes in both January and June, alums usually refer to their class number rather than their year to avoid confusion.  Not without some drama.  At a recent Career Day, I told the roomful of bright young women that I was Class  of 218.  Their response:  a collective gasp.  But I digress…

                While it took me 20 years before I truly appreciated the “intangible spirit” that I carried with me into the world on June 18, 1974, Ms. Bullock apparently has a clue. I quote her quote from the Inquirer:

We just have a family filled with strong women who strive for academic excellence.

I know she was speaking of her own family, but I can’t help thinking she included her extended Girls’ High family, as well.

                I admit I was closer to middle age when I began to understand what Imani Bullock already knows.  My National Merit Scholarship to La Salle, my commitment to mentoring other women, my ability to overcome obstacles:  I came to realize my alma mater deserved some of the credit. I started attending reunions.  And annual alumnae luncheons.  And presenting at Career Day (to this day, only 10% of appraisers who hold my advanced designation are women).  For me, it was a way to reconnect with those strong women at a time when I was starting my own business in a mostly male environment.  The only real asset I had at the time was myself.

                Now, add another 20 years. My 40^th reunion luncheon (and I almost didn’t go, but the lure of Gloria Allred, 204,  was too much to resist).  Once again, I reconnected with friends and hung on to every word of gutsy Gloria, our luncheon speaker.  A healthy dose of that intangible spirit reminded me that I’ve been a Girls’ High Girl all along.

The author with Gloria Allred

                Oh, I’m no Gloria Allred, Esquire.  In fact, Gloria Allred might not have become Gloria Allred as we know her today.  During her presentation, Ms. Allred candidly admitted she tried to transfer out of Girls’ High. She didn’t think she had the right stuff.  Imagine!

                And I’m no Judith Rodin (first woman President of the University of Pennsylvania).  I’m no Constance Clayton (first woman and first African-American Superintendent of Philadelphia Schools).  I’m no Julie Gold, a fellow 218 alum and songwriter whose credits include “From a Distance,” that Bette Midler hit.  I’m not even Patricia Giorgio Fox, Deputy Police Commissioner for the City of Philadelphia.  But I am proud to count myself among them.  And proud they count me, too.

                Any of us who have grown up in Philadelphia have seen incredible changes to our alma maters.  Schools closing, both public and parochial.  Budget cuts decimating programs and faculty.  Resources dwindling.  Girls' High is no exception: loss of guidance counselors, woefully outdated lab equipment.  I feel fortunate that those marble halls are still open to embrace young women like Imani Bullock. And, I hope, her daughters.

At my alma mater, the misson statement is:

To provide learning experiences in a safe, nurturing environment that prepare our students for success in college and leadership in their chosen fields. We do this by challenging the intellect, embracing diversity, celebrating leadership, honoring ethical behavior and encouraging participation in the extracurricular program.

                Right now, in the School District of Philadelphia, the average cost to educate one student is $12,351. 

That is quite a bargain for a Girls’ High Girl.

 

Check out the link below to hear the alma mater of the Philadelphia High School for Girls.

http://webgui.phila.k12.pa.us/schools/g/girlshigh/media/school-song-253.mp3

 

 

One Less Color

                                                                                     

To paraphrase my friend, Alison: when a loved one dies, though life does go on, it seems to go on with one less color.

Tommy Clewley may not have been a primary color in my life. He was the friend of a friend who became a friend. So, he was more a shade where colors overlap - not quite blue, not quite green – but an integral part of my spectrum nonetheless. His sudden disappearance from that palette reminds me how often I take the colors of my life for granted.

I have probably known Tommy since childhood. The Clewleys were part of my Aunt Renee’s extended Bridesburg family. Reen’s door was always open, so a holiday party wasn’t really a party without half the neighborhood dropping by. But my first clear memory of Tommy is Christmas 1977, in Aunt Renee’s basement “rec room,” as he tried to teach my cousins Eileen and Marianne how to disco dance. His exuberance was entertaining and infectious. Since then, every time I hear the soundtrack from “Saturday Night Fever” or anything by Donna Summer, that image of Tommy immediately comes to mind.

Then there were the late night runs to Newark Airport in the 80’s, to catch the $99 People Express flights to Florida. Tommy, Marianne, a variety of friends, and I spent quite a few long weekends in Flagler Beach, quaffing “Hallelujah Cocktails” at the Monk’s Vineyard and recuperating the next day on the beach. Tommy had a way of evoking laughter in even the most mundane moments.

He could also laugh at himself. One of my favorite malapropisms came as Tommy described the up-and-down weight seesaw of a certain Hollywood celebrity. With almost theatrical gravity, he remarked, “I am sure (the star) is bulge-emic.” In an instant, he realized his mistake –and its aptness –and burst into laughter. How could we not laugh with him?

In the 90’s, life got serious. We all had important jobs. I moved to Cape May. I only saw Tommy at the usual holiday parties, celebrations and solemnities that make up the social calendars of busy adults. And, because I had known Tommy since childhood, I don’t think I ever realized just how important – and how loved- he had become.

That is, until his retirement party on August 17. The throng of people in the photograph is a testimony to Tom’s good nature, generosity and love of life.

Who knew we would all meet again so soon – September 14, 2013 – to pay a more solemn tribute?

I heave a sigh as I write this. I know my life will go on. I know as I grow older there will be more farewells like this. Tommy’s death reminds me just how important it is to live –and appreciate – life to its fullest. Today really is all I have.

I know, too, that with time, the brightness will come back to my rainbow.  

But there will be one less color.        

Lafayette, Why Am I Here?

Summertime is often time for memorable vacations.  The following may not have been one of  my best vacations…but it was memorable, nonetheless.

I should have known, when the airport limousine we were promised turned out to be a pick-up truck, that this trip to visit my boyfriend’s family in France would be no vacation.  But the “limo” driver was jovial enough, assured us that the real limo was just in need of emergency repairs, and that we’d return from our trip in the style to which we were accustomed.  So we tossed our luggage into the back of the truck, scrunched in beside the driver, and began what was to be a vacation I would never forget.

Right up front, I must say that my relationship with my companion was less Jack and Jackie and more Ricky and Lucy, which often relegated me to second string.  And I must admit, as I operated my own business as my “day job,” that I often acquiesced to this position.  So, when I noticed that the representative at the airport check-in counter may have taken the tickets for our connecting flight to Montpelier as well as for our flight to Paris, I gently nudged my companion and whispered, “Honey…”

Glare.

I tried again. “But, honey…”

Glare.

So I took the hint and fished through my carry-on for a magazine.

When we got to Orly and went to check in for our flight to Montpelier, it was no surprise to me, then, that we had no tickets.  Luckily, we did have the receipts.  My companion’s irate call to American Express managed to get us on the flight.  We arrived, safe and sound, to the warm greetings of his daughter and three grandchildren.

I wish I could say the same for our luggage.  Apparently, our bags were detained in Paris, the result of a baggage-handlers’ strike.  This we discovered through my darling’s daughter, the only one of us who spoke French, interpreting for an excruciatingly gracious and very apologetic customer service representative.  Hats off, too, to this same daughter, who commandeered her apoplectic father to the car rental counter without international incident.

So there we were in Montpelier, France, on a late Saturday afternoon, with nothing more than the toiletries in our carry-ons.  Again, kudos to the capable daughter who, with an incendiary father, three restless children, and a veritable stranger, created a mini convoy with her minivan and our rented sedan.  She led us to a French version of our big box discount store and the only store open, as the French have a quaint custom of closing shops for the weekend.

Of course, this presented itself as yet another affront to Papa.  Having learned from our ticket incident not to get into his path, I turned him over to his daughter.  As I scavenged the aisles, I could hear said daughter’s petulant pleading:  “Dad, don’t you think you should try those on?”

The French sizes were a little confusing. I was dismayed to learn that my pants size was a 42, but somewhat amused that my less-than-buxom figure required a Size-99 bra!  With my companion assuaged by the knowledge that, if our luggage did not arrive in 24 hours, our purchases were compliments of American Express, we bundled up our packages and drove off to the hotel.

What a lovely place:  a converted manor with sloping gardens, a delightful pond, and a glass-walled dining room in a town called Cassoulet!  Our room was cozy, our bathroom quaint, and our accommodations required formal attire to dine.  No problem:  I had bought a dress and my companion, some slacks and a blazer.  One glitch:  only I had tried on mine.

So, when my companion emerged from the bathroom in the hastily-selected white slacks he had not tried on, I could only comment, with barely-restrained amusement, “Honey, you can’t wear those to dinner. You look like Elvis.”

Glare. Glare. Glare. Glare.

But dine we did.  To my relief, no one requested a rendition of “Viva, Las Vegas.”

And then there was the trip to Lourdes, which, I was supposed to be pleased to know, was “for Mary.”  While I am a practicing Catholic (and I was practicing very hard on this trip), the trip to Lourdes was news to me.

Now, my vision of a pilgrimage never included a minivan, three grumpy children, and a pre-dawn expedition along hairpin turns.  Nor did it include, just as we arrived in the venerable city, an explosive “I’m s-i-i-c-c-k…I mean it!” from the ten-year-old seated directly behind me.  Thank goodness for my quick reflexes, a gas station with  an automatic car wash, and my companion’s resourceful daughter (again).  To this day, however, whenever I hear the name “Lourdes,” I recall the distinct odor of Pine Sol.

So forgive me if I don’t tell you that, by the time we got to Lourdes, all the restaurants were no longer serving lunch, so we could only order pommes frites, salad, and wine.  Very much wine.  Or that the children, adorable heathens that they were, nearly bathed in the miraculous waters ( I still expect to hear that they have all entered the religious life).  Or that I only spent fifteen minutes at the actual shrine.  Nor will I go into detail about how all of that wine consumption at lunch somehow convinced my companions (I, sadly, did not drink, although, in hindsight, I should have) to cross the Pyrenees into Spain.  Along even more hairpin turns.  With fog. And RVs. And cows.

Forget about the gorgeous, brand-new hotel in Montpelier which had just opened the day we checked in and was so new, in fact, that my companion was inspired to instruct the management on how to operate the water heaters.  I won’t even mention the glare of all glares which graced me when I exclaimed that a seaside resort, La Grande Motte, was ‘the Wildwood of France” (which I still believe is a compliment).

I can only say that, when our airport “limo” failed to morph back into its true identity for our return trip from the airport, I knew this “vacation” and the relationship were beyond redemption.

Praise Godmothers!

                                            

Do you know who your godmother is?  Are you a godmother?  

I started pondering these questions just before Mother’s Day.  I had gone to the greeting card department of my favorite health and beauty aids store, to buy cards for my mother and my godmother.  While there was a plethora of cards for Mom, Mother, Wife, Aunt, etc., I couldn’t find a card specifically for my godmother.  It wasn’t that the cards were out of stock:  there wasn’t even a section for godmothers.  When I asked the cashier about it, she drew a blank.

 “I wouldn’t even think to send a card to my godmother,” was all she could offer.

So, I did a little research on the Hallmark card website.  I found only two godmother cards for Mother’s Day, along with one card for the godmother at a baptism.  Further research on the web, particularly Wikipedia, proved to be a little more fruitful on the subject…although the first thing that came up when I googled “godmothers” was the restaurant in Cape May!

The tradition of godparents seems to have begun with the Christians, although even the various Christian faiths differ on the importance of godparents and who can be a godparent.  Most agree, however, that godparents are entrusted with the spiritual care of their godchild. In the secular realm, godparents are chosen to step in as legal guardians upon the demise of the parents. Godmothers are the female component of the godparent team.  Quite a big job.  One would think there would be more cards for that.

Compounding the godmother confusion, of course, are fairy godmothers.  I would guess that most of us these days first think of the Disney version.  I know Hallmark does:  one of the two available godmother cards is illustrated by Cinderella’s Disney fairy godmother.  Which may not be bad.  At least Disney has kept godmothers in the public’s eye, if only in the fairy variety. (I’m not even touching the media image of godfathers!)  Still, there are similarities:  fairy godmothers and real godmothers wait in the wings to swoop to the rescue when necessary.

I admit that I haven’t taken my own godmother duties terribly seriously.  I am a three-time godmother, although in two cases I am really an absentee.  I was first a godmother to my cousin’s son, Evan, whom I probably would not recognize today.  Though I kept in contact with my cousin and her family for awhile when her children were young, we seem to have gone separate ways without even meaning to.  Second, I am godmother to my friend’s daughter, Kimberly.  Less absent there, thank goodness, as I do see Kimberly and her mom a few times a year.  My niece, Riley, is my third godchild, and I see her quite often, thanks to the myriad family gatherings that come from having three sisters and eight nieces and nephews.  I am sure I would have stepped up to the task if called upon to assume my godmotherly duties but, I am happy to admit, it looks like I am off the hook.

My own godmother is my Aunt Ann and, I am sure, quite relieved she never had to assume responsibility for my soul.  I must admit, though, there were times I felt comforted knowing I had someone “in reserve” in case I ever needed her. Although we are not inordinately close, Aunt Ann and I have kept in contact most of my lifetime.  I chat with her at our family gatherings, spent a week or two with her each summer when I was a pre-teen (before jobs, cars, boys), and was even close to her daughter for awhile. This year, I really wanted to send her a special card because her own family is now gone:  she lost both her daughter and her husband to cancer, and her brother (my father) and sister are also deceased. 

The best I could send was a Mother’s Day card For My Aunt, but it just didn’t measure up.       

Smart Cookies

March is Women’s History Month, and I couldn’t let it pass without a salute to some very influential women in my life. These particular women aren’t in any history books that I know of, but they are an important part of my history.  They are my Girl Scout leaders.

            These intrepid women commandeered school busloads of young girls and budding adolescents to places like the Hershey Chocolate Factory, Bond Bread Bakery, and the Washington Monument.  Places like Camp Laughing Waters and Camp Indian Run. Betsy Rennenbaum and Mary Schmidt, leaders of my Junior troop, taught me that spending the weekend in an unheated cabin with only cold running water could actually be fun.  Geri Towson and Cathy Parkin, my Cadette and Senior leaders, taught me that spending a week in a canvas tent full of daddy-long-legs in the middle of June could actually be fun. And that there was nothing like that long bus ride home from camp on Sunday night – hot or frozen, grungy, aching for a shower – singing silly songs until we were hoarse.  Even my mother succumbed to the Girl Scout call and became a Cookie Mother one year.  Imagine:  the living room and dining room of our “straight-through” Olney rowhouse a maze of Girl Scout cookie cartons!  I wonder what it cost her for all the “free samples” my sisters and I must have pilfered.

            Though my sash wasn’t resplendent with badges, I earned a respectable few.  I learned how to care for the American flag and how to carry it proudly.  I can still tell whether I am heading north, south, east or west without a GPS. Friends who know me now may be surprised to learn that the woman who prefers to cook with just a microwave oven was taught to cook over a campfire (and how to make one)!  Sit-upons and sleeping bags, civic responsibility and cookie sales:  the women who were my troop leaders were also my mentors and role models.  And they did it for free. 

              I can’t put my finger on exactly what I took away from Scouting.  Except that girls could do anything (and usually did!).  Whatever it was, it was enough to convince me to become a troop leader, myself. Special thanks to Dottie Hicke, wherever you are. We were just college students, but we passed on the Scouting tradition to a bevy of Brownies for five years, until our adult lives took us in different directions.

Recently, I found my diploma from the Girl Scouts.  It isn’t hanging alongside my high school and college diplomas, but maybe it should be.  Because, according one Girl Scout website, 64% of women leaders in the US today (civic, corporate, political, etc.) were Girl Scouts.  Here’s an impressive sample:

Debbie Fields (Mrs. Fields’ Cookies..aha!); Anita Roddick (The Body Shop); Michelle Obama (FLOTUS) and Laura Bush(former FLOTUS); Hillary Rodham and Chelsea Clinton; Nancy Reagan; Madeline Albright and Jeanne Kirkpatrick; Sandra Day O’Connor; Dr. Sally Ride (first woman in space); Christa McAuliffe (teacher and astronaut); Katie Couric and Barbara Walters; Mariah Carey and Celine Dion; Grace Kelly and Sandra Dee; Susan Lucci (imagine!); Erma Bombeck; Dear Abby and Ann Landers; and my three favorites:  Lucille Ball, Mary Tyler Moore, and Marlo Thomas.

Oh..and Gloria Steinem. And Queen Elizabeth II.

For even more “Famous Formers,” check out the website:  

 http://www.girlscoutsgcnwi.org/famous-formers

As Women’s History Month draws to a close, I just have two words for the Girl Scouts and the leaders who touched my life:   

Thank you.

And now, there’s a box of Thin Mint cookies in the freezer with my name on it. These days,  I think I might need a bigger “sit-upon”!

Gone to the Dogs

“If there is reincarnation, I want to come back as your dog.”

            I was never sure whether this comment by an ex-boyfriend’s mother was a compliment or not.

           However, I, too, had made some disparaging comments of my own.  Over the years, when bemoaning my frequent disappointments in relationships, I often remarked:

            “What can you expect?  I was raised by wolves.”

            Referring somewhat cynically to the fact that I’ve spend most of my adult life living with dogs.  Period.

            Perhaps it is the wisdom of hindsight.  Perhaps I have finally accepted that I choose the company of canines.  Whatever the reason, recently I found myself inventorying the relationships I’ve had with canis lupus familiaris.

I've always said that Walnut took care of me.  Found on Walnut Street by Emily Deane and brought home to Olney in a cab, Walnut wound up with me when Emily’s parents refused to let her keep a dog.  I, on the other hand, at 22 already had my own house.  And then, with Walnut’s arrival, my own dog.  Though she lived the first years of her life in a state of benign neglect, Walnut probably saved mine.  From what I was able to piece together at the time, Walnut apparently met a burglar at the top of the stairs and escorted him out the back door.  All he got for his trouble was an obsolete pocket calculator.  Walnut got a steak.  I am proud to say Walnut spent the last years of her life in a Center City high-rise where Charles, the door man, greeted her by name every single day.

Found on my birthday, Kizzy’s full name was Kismet, for obvious reasons.  If any of my dogs truly was a wolf, she was the one.  Resembling a little coyote, Kizzy had the wiles to match.  She wiggled cunningly into Walnut’s empty space and stayed for 13 years.  Almost literally my constant companion, Kizzy traveled to Florida, North Carolina, and New York, as well as to most of my appraisal assignments.  She is immortalized in Mutts: America’s Dogs by Brian Kilcommons and Michael Capuzzo. (Still in print...in case you're interested). 

Nicky arrived as Kizzy was entering her dotage.  A puffy Pomeranian, Nicky was my only alleged purebred.  Nicknamed “The Mayor,” Nicky loved people and delighted in greeting everybody.  Though he arrived in middle age, Nicky hung around until he was about 14 years old and was best known for providing background music whenever I answered the phone.

What do I say about Pepper?  My friend Lorraine cajoled me into a visit to the Humane Society of Ocean City soon after Nicky’s death.  “A dog is not a boyfriend,”  she chided.  “You can get another one right away.”  Pepper was my “special needs” dog. She gave the first impression that she had no intention of being anyone’s best friend. In the shelter for six months, she lacked most of the canine social graces.  My “Fox Terror,” Pepper nonetheless endeared herself to me and to a select few around me.  I lost her too soon to lymphoma, but not before she ingratiated herself in her quirky, noisy way, with the admissions and oncology staff at Penn Vet.

And now there is Mi Amigo, aka Migo.  Enter Lorraine again:  barraging me with Petfinder photos after Pepper was gone.  The closest I have come to online dating is falling in love with a lop-eared, red Chihuahua mix.  Mi Amigo – placid, with an “I’ve seen it all” look in his eye -  is my furry Valentine, my friend.

 

So, maybe I really have been “raised by wolves.”  Certainly, none of my boyfriends treated me as well as my canine companions. I am proud to say, though, that I treated most of  my boyfriends like dogs.

            You know, that ex-boyfriend’s mom was an attractive redhead and Migo is…do you think?

            Nah……